Divorcing The Don: Rise Of The Queen

Sera POV

I stepped fully into the nursery, the thick carpet doing nothing to soften the blow of his words.

"This is my home, Dante," I said, my voice shaking with a rage that felt foreign in my own veins.

"This was our child's room. And you are repurposing it for another woman's pet."

Dante slipped his phone into the pocket of his trousers. He crossed his arms and looked at me like I was a puzzle he had no interest in solving.

"I am the Don, Seraphina."

He said the title like it explained everything—as if the title could staunch the wound in my chest.

"I have to remain emotionless. I have to be calculated to keep this family alive. I do not have the luxury of dwelling on a loss from three years ago."

A harsh, bitter sound tore from my throat, scraping against the dryness of my vocal cords.

"You are not emotionless, Dante."

I snatched the telephone from my purse. The screen flared to life with the text I had received earlier.

I held the illuminated device toward his chest, careful not to let it actually brush his pristine suit.

"Read it," I demanded.

Dante barely spared the screen a glance.

"Lucia texted me," I read aloud when he refused to speak. "She asked if her pet could sleep in the master suite tonight because the nursery might be too drafty."

I dropped my hand, staring into his dark, empty eyes.

"She wants to put an animal in our bed, Dante. Because you gave her the clearance to think she could."

"Lucia is my protégé," he said, his tone dismissive.

"She is loyal. She is vital to our operations. You are having an unstable emotional outburst over a simple logistical request."

A logistical request.

That was what my trauma was to him. A matter of scheduling.

I looked around the room—at the pale yellow paint I had so carefully chosen, the custom molding I had watched them install.

All of it was being stripped down to house a creature that belonged to the woman who shadowed my husband's every move.

I said nothing more. I turned, not with a sudden flourish, but with the slow, deliberate weight of a final decision, and walked down the long hall to the master suite.

From the top shelf of the closet, I pulled down a heavy leather suitcase. It landed on the damask bedspread with a dull thud. I wrenched open the drawers of my chiffonier, seizing fistfuls of silk and wool.

"What are you doing?" Dante asked from the doorway.

His voice was lower now—a dark, rumbling warning.

"I am packing," I said, throwing a pile of sweaters into the bag. "I am going back to my mother's safehouse. My status in this family is lower than a stray dog's."

Dante crossed the room in three long strides, his palm striking the closet door and barring my path.

The familiar scent of his expensive cologne and gunpowder washed over me.

"You are not leaving this house, Seraphina."

I looked up at him. The muscles along his jaw were corded like steel wire.

"I am ascending to the head of the Commission in two weeks," he stated, his eyes narrowing.

"A Don's household must appear stable. You are choosing the worst possible time to break ranks. You will unpack your things."

I stared at the man I had loved. The man I had bled for. The man who had just reduced our child's memory to an inconvenience.

"Do not worry about your ascension, Dante," I said quietly.

"I will not ruin your public image. I am just severing the marriage."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

Dante's face darkened in a way that usually made grown men drop to their knees and beg for their lives.

"Never use the threat of leaving a Don lightly, Seraphina."

My gaze unwavering, I reached into the hidden compartment of my jewelry box.

I pulled out a thick, folded piece of parchment.

It was our marriage contract, stamped with the faded blood-seal of the Five Families.

I held it up between us as one might hold a cross to a demon.

"This is not a threat, Dante. It is a notification."

He stared at the parchment, his chest rising and falling in a slow, controlled rhythm.

"I have syndicate business," he finally said, stepping back from the closet.

He turned his broad back on me and walked toward the door.

"When I return, this hysterical episode will be over."

The heavy bedroom door clicked shut. In the ensuing quiet, I could hear the faint hum of the house's electricity and the frantic beat of my own blood in my ears.

I walked back down the hall to the nursery.

A fissure opened in the numb shell of me, and a sharp, localized pang struck beneath my ribs. It was followed by a rush of destructive grief.

I tore the new velvet curtains from their moorings. The thick fabric ripped with a sound like a muted scream that echoed through the quiet house.

As I pulled down a newly installed shelf, a small, silver frame clattered to the floor, landing face up.

It was a photo of Dante and Lucia.

They were standing on a yacht, his hand resting casually on the small of her back.

He was smiling. It was a smile of unfeigned warmth—the kind he had not bestowed upon me in years.

I stared at the photo until my vision blurred with hot tears.

I pulled out my phone and dialed a secure number.

"Vincenzo," I said when the line connected.

"Yes, Boss," the deep voice answered immediately.

"Initiate the formal severing of my marriage," I ordered, my voice now a blade of ice. "And prepare the asset retrieval. We are burning his whole operation to the ground."

For seven years, I had let the Haven Syndicate lie dormant, a silent inheritance I hoped I would never need. Tonight, I was waking the beast.